


As Icarus Flew

by LassieLowrider



Series: COC2019 [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Carry On Countdown 2019, Carry On Countdown Day 1, M/M, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21561478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LassieLowrider/pseuds/LassieLowrider
Summary: As Icarus once flew too close to the sun he so adored, maybe Baz is no different in his regard for Simon.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: COC2019 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553869
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2019





	As Icarus Flew

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the COC2019 Day 1 prompt - Sun & Moon
> 
> I own _nothing_.

**BAZ**

The thing about Simon Snow - and the thing most people don’t seem to realise - is that he’s like the sun. He’s the sun, bringing light to all, untouchable at every distance, and if you dare come close he will burn you. Yes, Simon Snow is the sun, and in this, I am Icarus, and the sun shall be my downfall. 

I can’t bring myself to regret it, either. 

It’s always felt inevitable, that one of us would bring about the end of the other. We clashed, from the start, yet I can’t get him out of my head. Wherever he goes he leaves behind this smell, somewhere between a lightning strike and a wood fire. As a vampire, I shouldn’t be fire’s biggest fan, but here we are. 

In love with what seems to be the literal personification of fire, and unable to stop to boot. 

He’s like the sun in more ways than just the burning, too, and maybe that’s the worst part. Was it just the burning, then I could’ve accepted it, maybe moved on, but he’s so much more - and I say that, as someone who only spends time with him by necessity. I couldn’t imagine being his friend, spending hours upon hours with that focus, the beam of sunlight, focused on me and nothing else. 

When he gives you all that attention, that tractor beam focus, it either makes you wilt in it, too much sun and too little water; or it makes you flourish, stand a bit straighter, a bit brighter, in appreciation of him. 

Much like the sun, you don’t pay much attention to him when he’s there, but you do immediately notice the absence when he’s not. 

He’s like the mid-summer sun, scorching more than anything, but none of us can help but bask in it. 

Maybe I’m not Icarus in this situation, maybe I am instead a satellite, a moon of sorts, where I orbit him and all that I am, any light I give, is merely a reflection of him? Who would I be if there were no Simon Snow - would I be anything at all, did he not exist?

If I am Icarus and he Apollo, would it not be worth the fall just for the chance to fly?

When Snow then kissed me, in the middle of a burning forest, I don’t know what was the closest to turning me to ash; the actual literal fire, or the heat of him. He tasted like ash, then as he still does now, and as I kissed him I could taste my downfall.

Even now, magic or no magic, he is like the sun; he still burns, he still shines, and still, I am but a reflection of his light. It’s weird, how it happens. Everyone, magic or not, orbits him, the strength and force of his personality having such a gravitational pull everyone is powerless to resist it. 

Maybe I am not Icarus, fruitlessly reaching for an unattainable dream. Maybe instead I am Apollo, and he the sun I follow across the sky every day. Maybe we are as we are meant to be.

“Baz?” Simon says, turning over in bed and reaching for me, patting down the empty side of the bed. I can only watch fondly as he sits up, adorably confused and barely awake, frowning in my direction. “C’me back to bed, you pillock.”

Even now, the murky darkness of a moonless night spreading through the room, he glows. I don’t say anything, just crawls back into bed, wrapping my arms around him. He grumbles wordlessly, more asleep than awake, but sinks into me. He smells like warmth and campfire, less like the burning inferno he smelt like when we were at Watford.

This Icarus had flown, had reached for the sun and not fallen, other than in love. I had gotten my Apollo, and that’s really all that I wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen.
> 
> I have not read _Wayward Son_ , and if you in any way, shape or form spoil that book for me, I will find you, and I'll look sad in your direction. When I look sad, I look like a labradoodle puppy whose tail someone has just trod on. 
> 
> Do you want that on your conscience?


End file.
